


The Fine Truth

by Daydreamer



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Assassins vs. Templars, Creative License, Desmond is a mopey bastard, Differences from the games, Drama & Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Multi-Era, Mutual Pining, Sex with a lesser character, Time Travel, Vaginal Sex, more tags to be added as needed, sap, theres gonna be some smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-05-16 07:41:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14807130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daydreamer/pseuds/Daydreamer
Summary: Desmond mourns the loss of his time with Altair in the Animus. Altair can't understand why he is suddenly so alone in his head. Grief makes one do dangerous things.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, for some reason, I have been on a serious Assassin's Creed fixation. But it irritates me so much at all the Character/Reader fics. And also, the lack of 'time travel' Altair/Desmond or Ezio/Desmond or Connor/Desmond. I'm not as big a fan of threesomes/moresomes with them but that's mostly what there is so I deal. I'm trying not to go on a tangent. Needless to say, I'm out of fics to read...seriously so when that happens, I write what I want to read. Now, I know the fandom is...well teeny-tiny. So I'd be surprised if anyone read this at all, but I needed to write this and anything I write, I share. It's inspired by the very few Desmond/his ancestor(s) out there. Cuz if I'm honest, Altair is my man. He has remained my favorite throughout the whole series, though, I do have a very soft and squishy spot of Ezio. I'll be honest. There is gonna be sap, cliche, drama, definitely some sex at some point. Oh and definitely some OOC. Sorry. Might even be a tad of Altair/Malik. I love the pairing but I hate love triangles. We'll see how it works out. Title might even change.
> 
> But anyway, If anyone does read this, I hope you enjoy. Throw me a comment or two. I'll update when I update.

Desmond Miles gasped for breath, his heart pounding with enough force he was certain could be heard by his companions. They had only just escaped from the Abstergo building where he had resided over the past few weeks. First he was thrown into the trunk of a car, then shoved into the back of a transport truck.

In such a short time, his entire world had been turned inside out. He barely restrained the shake in his hand as he brought it to run through his closely shorn hair. Had it really only been a matter of weeks? Inside the Animus, time seemed to blur just as reality did when outside of the machine. What was real and what was merely a shadow of the past seemed to merge until he was never sure if he was standing on the dirt packed alleys of Jerusalem or if he was laying on the hard bed during his far too short of rest breaks. Nothing is true, everything is permitted. Such words had never rang more accurate, though more so the first part. Nothing felt true or real for him any longer.

They said that he was merely a spectator to his ancestor’s life, yet it didn’t really feel as such as he leapt from building to building or plunged from towers into wagons of hay. He didn’t actually feel the emotions of his ancestor, yet he felt as if every step he took was more than just watching the past. It felt as if he was truly influencing the actions unfolding before him. Lucy called it simply a side effect of the machine; part of the Bleeding Effect as she called it. If it was simply in his own mind, why did Altaïr stumble occasionally when preparing a risky jump? Why did essentially a master assassin hesitate before striking a killing blow? If he was only a spectator, why did it feel as if he was in control at times?

The hand on his head dragged down slowly over his face. Was he going insane for even allowing his thoughts to continue on an even madder route? The Animus was not a time machine. They told him it was simply genetic history and nothing more. The past was in the past and no amount of trips into the Animus could affect it. All they could do was watch it unfold like a movie played through in his blood.

His hand drifted down to his chest, where a tightness had begun to grow. Despite the pain of spending extended time in the Animus, he had looked forward to feeling of being with Altaïr, of hearing his voice and feeling the addicting sensation of living in his skin. He knew Altaïr’s body as well as his own. He knew its limits and when they could be pushed. But, never once did he feel as though he was truly Altaïr. He was there and yet, he wasn’t. It was as if his soul had attached itself to his ancestor and allowed him to side along travel inside his body.

Describing the experience of the Animus was an impossible feat. Even now, he could barely wrap his mind around the logistics of the experience. No amount of technical jargon or explanations could fully allow him to comprehend what he experienced. In fact, now that he was freed of that machine, he should be cheering. He would not miss the agonizing migraines or the shadows of the past creeping along the corners of his vision.

So why did he ache at the thought of no longer being able to see Altaïr? It was very nearly an actual hurt. His stomach churned and he felt what he imagined an addict experienced without a fix.

“Desmond?”

Shaking himself back into his reality, he stared at the concerned expression spreading across Lucy’s face. Sweat damp blond hair stuck to her face and neck and her pulse thudded visibly at the base of her throat. He was comforted by her concern. If nothing else, it distracted him from his personal distress. He willingly latched onto anything to keep him from drowning in the madness of his mind.

“Just feeling…odd.”

She nodded in understanding. “The Bleeding Effect. It will pass soon. You’ve spent a long time in the Animus. The others went insane long before you. It's a miracle you aren't catatonic by now. Abstergo didn’t care about the side effects as long as they got the results they wanted. I’m sorry, Desmond. I did what I could at the time.”

He nodded. He didn’t really understand how the machine worked or how genetic memory could be passed from parent to child down through the generations. And he didn’t understand why or how it could be viewed by outsiders. All he knew was that Abstergo had figured out a way and he was in a position he would have never thought to be in again. Now he was being pulled back into the shadows he had tried to escape at sixteen when he had fled the madness of the Farm.

“Don’t you worry though, we’ve taken care to work out that kink for the most part. Abstergo couldn’t be bothered because they didn’t care about their subject’s sanity, just what they could see in their blood.” The dark haired woman in the passenger’s seat of the large transport truck they were currently using turned to look at him with a warm smile. Rebecca, he thinks he heard her called by Lucy as they had pealed out towards safety. “You shouldn’t feel nearly as much of a reaction to the side effects from here on out. At least not the bad ones. Those boxes back there with you aren’t junk, y’know. That’s my baby, or at least the parts of her. I’ll have to reassemble her once we get to where we’re going.”

“So I’m going back in?” He had to mentally tamp down the surge of excitement now replacing the churn of nausea in his stomach.

“Yep, to your ancestor Ezio Auditore da Firenze. We’re gonna go about this totally differently. Instead of you simply jumping into the middle of his life, you’re gonna grow up with him. We're going to renaissance Italy, baby!”

“I was hoping to break it to you a little more gently.” Lucy sighed tiredly while sending a scowl in Rebecca’s general direction. “What Rebecca means is that by using the Animus that she altered, you’ll learn with Ezio. When he learns abilities, you’ll learn them. You’ll be killing two birds with one stone—searching for the Apple we know Ezio possessed at some point and completing assassin training. I hate to ask this of you, Desmond. You’ve been through so much and we’re once more asking you do what no one should be asked to do.”

“What about Altaïr?” Desmond had to fight to keep the panic from his voice, hoping any leaking through would be blamed on fear of going back into the Animus. “He has the Apple.”

A shrug from Lucy was all he received. “We’re finished with Altaïr. Abstergo has seen the information from his Apple, so instead, we’re taking a different route. Our research has shown that Ezio Auditore possessed an Apple at some point during his life, likely even the same one as Altaïr or possibly even a completely different one. But there is only one Desmond Miles. Abstergo doesn’t have you and that gives us an advantage since they won’t be able to see what we find with Ezio.”

“Yeah,” chirped Rebecca. “It’s time that the Assassins turned the tables on the Templars.”

Despair crept into him and he lowered his head, pulling his hood up to hide his eyes. He wouldn’t see Altaïr again. His only reason for living through weeks of headaches and the insanity of the Bleeding Effect had been Altaïr. At first he hated him and his cold arrogance, but as he saw his growth and his devotion to redeeming himself and saving the brotherhood, he’d found himself drawn to him. He was willingly driving himself insane just for his fix of being in Altaïr’s presence. And now to be told that he wouldn’t be able to see him again; the pain was almost too much for him withstand.

“Rest, Desmond. We have a long drive ahead of us. We’re headed to Italy.”

Rest was the last thing he thought possible. He wondered for not the first time if Altaïr had ever felt his presence. Maybe he wasn’t viewing the past, but rather his soul was being sent their so to see. It was foolish to think so, and yet it was all that was keeping him even the slightest bit sane. He knew any reasonable person would think he was crazy, and perhaps he was. The Animus tended to have that effect on people, or so he had been told.

Wrapping his arms tightly around his body, he shivered lightly. Grief tore through him and he was grateful for the privacy allowed him by his hoodie and the strapped down boxes and crates surrounding him. Unbidden tears tracked down his cheeks. His world seemed to be imploding and he wasn’t sure why. Now he wished he had remained with Abstergo. They might have killed him, or at the very least turned him into a drooling vegetable, but at least he would be with Altaïr. His heart cracked at the thought of not seeing the man he had strangely enough felt such a strong kinship, maybe even friendship with. He had never spoken a word to him, and yet his soul felt that strange feeling of real connection. And now it was all but severed. He would never see Altaïr again.

___________________________________________________________________________________

**Masyef 1192**  
Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad stared out from the highest tower overlooking the fortress and village of Masyaf. His thoughts drifted outward, almost searching. It had been a busy few weeks, painful even. The Brotherhood was in a fragile state after the revealed betrayal of Al Mualim, many uncertain of the fate that awaited them. Many wondered if the Templars would attack now that they were weakened by the recent events. His own promotion to Mentor only seemed to grant the slightest of relief. And his own thoughts couldn’t seem to settle on the task at hand. How could he lead when he lacked the internal calm and resolve to continue?

Where had his resolve gone? Where had his strength of will escaped?

For over a year, he had felt something. He couldn’t even describe it. It was like a presence, though it never spoke to him or even really acknowledged him, nor he it. In truth, he couldn’t even pinpoint if there was anything there at all most of the time, only that a quiet hum existed inside him. It was simply there, in the back of his mind. There were many times when it seemed curious, like a child absorbing everything in the surroundings and at other times, it was simply a slight buzz that he barely noticed. All he knew was that he always felt the presence. It was always with him, never truly leaving, only shifted into a sort of hibernation. It always returned.

Until it didn’t.

At first, it was an annoyance, causing him to hesitate where he never would have before. There was more than one occasion when he nearly fell from ledges because of that hesitation and he could have sworn he felt a fear not his own. Altaïr never feared death. There was very little he could say that would bring such an emotion to him. It was in those moments, he knew something other than himself was present.

And then, there were times with the quiet presence silently urged caution. On more than one occasion he had listened to the unspoken urging and been startled at the wisdom of it. It was then he began to unconsciously refer to the presence as his Guardian. It had become a part of him and he could no longer imagine his life without it. And before long, they were working in sync to a degree that he felt as if they were one.

His Guardian was a comfort to him when his blade silenced Al Mualim’s betraying lips. His mentor. The man had been a near father to him. Without his Guardian, Altaïr wasn’t sure he could have withstood the intense betrayal he felt, not just as a Brother, but also as a son.

When his hands touched the Apple, unspoken feelings of caution poured through him. He was so distracted by what was revealed to him that he never felt his Guardian’s presence growing weaker until days later when he realized he was alone in his head. There was no calming hum, no insistent urging.

Silence was all he felt.

And then the madness.

For a few days after his realization, he thought perhaps it was similar to the other times when he could barely feel his Guardian. But as days continued to pass, he realized he was truly alone once more and he could not bear it.

Darkness crept along his mind, blanketing him in its whispering anguish. He couldn’t eat. Slept only when his body could no longer withstand the exhaustion. He pushed his assassins hard, in both training and missions. His only hope to stave off the madness was to throw himself into his new role as Mentor to the Brotherhood.

But they knew. His assassins knew all was not well with their new leader. They never spoke to him, but he could feel their wariness. He could feel the wide berth they gave him, as if afraid he would slay them where they stood. And he wasn’t sure he would not if prodded in the wrong way. Without his Guardian, he was lost.

“Mentor?”

Altaïr remained where he sat, his only acknowledgement of the young novice was a slight tilt of his head, his eyes never leaving the sight of the setting sun over the mountains surrounding Masyaf. He could not bring himself to turn away and be pulled from this slight moment of peace, or at least as close to it as he had come since the loss of his Guardian.

“Dai Malik has arrived.”

He almost laughed at the quiver in the boy’s voice. It was a response he had noticed often of late.

Without even bothering to respond to the boy, he twisted smoothly from the ledge he sat and hopped to the balcony where the novice stood. Without giving the novice another glance, he began strolling down the stairs. His thoughts drifted to the emptiness inside him and his mind reached out once more for that reclusive sensation of his Guardian.

Of course the presence was not there and he felt his anger spike as a result of it.

His steps took on a stalking aura as he glided silently into the room where his Dai from Jerusalem stood calmly awaiting his presence. “Safety and peace, Mentor.”

Altaïr snorted at the title. “There is neither, not as I am.”

Malik arched a brow and gestured for Altaïr to join him on the pillows arranged in one corner of the room. A novice immediately jumped into action, pouring both a cup of fragrant tea before exiting the room to give them their privacy. “I’ve heard you have not been yourself.”

“Maybe how I am now is the truth of who I am.”

A hum rumbled from Malik. “I know who you are, who you have become. It is why I have come. Tell me what troubles you, friend.”

“I am lost, Malik. I feel as if my soul has been torn asunder. I can’t sleep, and when I do, my dreams are haunted by a ghost.”

“A former assassination?”

Altaïr shook his head. “Would that it was something so simple, for in my dreams, I am complete. It is when I wake that I despair because I am once more alone.”

Malik’s brow creased in concern. “I do not understand. Was it that cursed Apple that has done this to you?”

“I don’t know how to explain what has happened. The incredulity of it escapes all comprehension.” Altaïr reached up to push the black cowl from his head and run his fingers through short locks. “I do not think you would believe my words even if I attempted to explain it.”

Malik leaned forward, intense brown eyes met troubled gold. “Try me, my friend. I have seen things I thought possible only through Allah. My mind is far more open than most and I am most bothered by your distress. Trust me to understand, or at the least, trust me to be a unjudging ear.”

Both of Altaïr's hands lifted to his head, cradling his skull. He flinched at the touch of Malik’s hand upon his shoulder, neatly shrugging it away. “I will tell you, but only because I believe I am becoming mad.”

“I shall be the judge of such.”

With a deep sigh of resignation, Altaïr nodded his head and began, the words spilling forth with far more ease than he would have imagined. “There was something…someone inside of me, inside my mind for months. I felt it, an inkling of curiosity and interest. It followed me from Solomon’s Temple…or maybe longer. I know the madness this sounds of, but it was there…he was there.”

“Altaïr…”

“I know,” he snapped. “I know I sound mad. You asked and I have told you. He was there and now he is not and I am going mad. I feel as if a limb has been cut from me, a part of me torn away, leaving only the shadow—a memory of being whole.”

Malik flinched at the words, his eyes shifting covertly to his own amputated arm. “I am not judging the truth of your words, only the supposition of their reality. Are you sure the Apple did not alter you somehow, plant these feelings in you? We still do not know the extent of its power or how Al Mualim intended to use it.”

“I felt him long before I ever touched the Apple. He hated me. The day you lost your arm and we lost Kadar. I could very nearly feel his disgust at me. I ignored it then. In my arrogance, I thought only of myself. I was above all others.” Altaïr scowled into his cup. “I should have died that day.”

“You did die, Altaïr. For all of Al Mualim’s faults, he did bring you back to the Creed. You were reborn that day and then grew into a man I could respect above all others. I acknowledged you as Mentor, not out of pressure from others, but out of my own belief that you could lead our sect better than any other. All others pale before you, Altaïr. ”

Altaïr’s lips quirked in a bitter semblance of a smile. “It was him. It was him who changed me, not Al Mualim.”

Malik’s head canted to the side. “Who?”

“My guardian. He was the reason I changed. Al Mualim might have given me the tasks and pointed me in the proper direction, but it was he who guided me. It was he who stayed my blade and forced me to honor my targets. Without him, nothing would have changed.”

“I find this difficult to believe,” murmured Malik, taking a sip from his tea.

“But it is.” Altaïr cradled his cup of cooling tea. “I am lost without him.”

“I thought the same after Kadar’s death. It becomes easier. Perhaps your guardian, as you call it, was a gift from Allah to guide you. Once you became who you are, he left.”

Altaïr’s eyes flashed dangerously and he extended his hidden blade with a swift flick of his wrist, half-rising and plunging the weapon into a pillow with a vicious slam. “Then I shall become a monster if that will bring him back. Allah will be forced to give him to me or else I shall dye the rivers red with the blood of all who stand before me.”

Malik placed his cup gently upon the tray before facing his Brother and slamming his fist into his jaw with hard precision. “Stop playing the fool. You dishonor not only yourself, but this supposed guardian of yours, not to mention Allah. You are the Mentor now. It is your duty to guide our order and here you act like an untried novice. You should feel ashamed for your words.”

Lifting a hand to his jaw, Altaïr licked at the blood seeping from the small cut on his lip, testing the small would with his tongue. “What would you have me do? I don’t think I can live without him.”

“Learn,” growled Malik.

Altaïr shook his head. Malik couldn’t understand, not fully. He had not experienced the peace from that presence. It was a balm to ease the burn of living and now it was gone, leaving nothing but a raw ache in its wake.

“Forgive me,” sighed Malik. “I only want what is best for the Brotherhood and for my friend. You have enemies, my friend. Do not give them cause to strike in your weakness.”

Altaïr nodded his understanding. He was not deaf to the whispers in the walls. His position was tenuous at best. The power of being Mentor was a temptation to many. But it was the Apple that truly drew those who would seek to depose him. He would have to guard both his front, and his back. And if his new reality continued upon its set route, he would be doing so alone. 

“I will take your council under advisement,” he said.

“Remember, brother, we work in the darkness to serve the light. That does not mean we are immune to the temptations of the dark. We know its touch far too well. We are, after all, only human. Only Allah can claim divine wisdom. I believe Allah is testing you, my friend. All things happen by his will.” Malik clasped his hand upon Altaïr’s shoulder once more. “Take a few days and meditate. I shall defend your position. It is you who must accept your role.”

Altaïr narrowed his gaze. “And what we spoke of?”

“I cannot tell you how to grieve for your loss.” Malik squeezed the flesh beneath his hand. “Only you know the road you must follow in finding your way.”

With those words, Malik stood with the grace of a panther and left the room on silent feet. The silence in both the room and his head was deafening. Malik had brushed off Altaïr’s worries. He couldn’t understand, and why should he? His grief at the loss of Kadar was normal. It wasn’t as if they were joined in any form other than as brothers. Altaïr’s grief was so much more. He had lost a piece of his soul.

Closing his eyes, he rested against the pillows and attempted to push back the tide he had been fighting since he realized he was truly alone in his head. He kept unconsciously reaching for something he could not define in any language he knew. And it angered him.

He wanted to rend something. He wanted to plunge his blade into the heart of anything, to destroy. Anything was better than the pain that radiated through him. His soul was soaked in blood, but his Guardian had never seemed to mind. His mistakes were met with disappointment, and his triumphs were met with excitement. Now he was empty and alone.

His mind began to drift as exhaustion tugged at him. He hadn’t slept decently for weeks. 

As his mind slipped further into the abyss, he felt it. A spark, so faint that for a moment he wasn’t sure it was real. It was as faint as the brushing of a feather along his face and he released an audible moan in relief.

“Where are you?” he pleaded, fingers clenching in the pillows beneath him.

There was no answer and he struggled to reach out toward the sensation. Please, he silently begged. It felt close, as if he could touch it. His Guardian was there, just beyond his reach and Altaïr reached for him with a desperation he had never experienced before.

And just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. His eyes flew open and he cried out in agony, nearly doubling over in grief. He extended his hidden blade and slammed it repeatedly into the pillows surrounding him, ripping and tearing them so that their innards spilled around him.

Wild eyes turned to his desk near the opposite side of the room and he attacked the surface. Scrolls and inkwells went flying about him. He didn’t scream, at least where others could hear. Even in his grief, his long years of training prevented vocal outbursts. But, his training did not stop him from attacking anything coming in his vision.

His body froze when a touch upon his arm stilled him for a mere second before he struck with his blade. Malik’s years of training were the only thing preventing him from being skewered. Anyone less than a master assassin would have died to his bout of maddened grief. Only Malik’s shocked face was enough to pull him back into his senses amid the carnage of his quarters.

“Peace, Altaïr.”

Altaïr grappled at Malik’s shoulders, taking them both to the ground as he collapsed in a panting mess. “I felt him, Malik. And it’s like I lost him all over again.”

Malik knelt beside Altaïr in shock as the mentor of the Brotherhood bowed his body until his brow touched the stone floor. There were no sobs, not a single sound escaped him, but there was no doubt to any who might have seen what played out that the powerful man was grieving.

“Altaïr…”

“I am lost without him,” whispered Altaïr. “A ghost in a living body.”

Malik’s touch upon his shoulder was slight. “I shall help you, my friend. You shall be whole again.”

As he lay kneeling before his friend, Altaïr very much doubted the words. Without his Guardian, he would never be whole.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, talk about a fast update for me. Don't expect this every time XD. I'm actually a little surprised at the attention the first chapter received. Well, anyway, here is the next chapter. Like I said in the tags, this won't really follow the games. In fact, it's probably gonna have massive deviance from that, so don't expect me to follow any script by the games. I played them all, but honestly, I've never enjoyed anything that went by an anime or game word for word. And I changed the years. It's just easier on me if events are taking place in 2018 rather than 2012. Desmond makes me want to cry with how sad he is. I hope you enjoy.

**Masyef 1192**

There was a haze surrounding Altaïr, similar and yet not, to that which invaded him during the final moment of his kills. All else faded away and his entire being was focused on that of his prey. His body moved of its own accord, turning slowly to scan the space for any sort of recognizable objects. The haze was nearly impenetrable.

Just as he began to wonder if there was any hope of making it through the whiteness, his eyes lighted on a shadow in the shape of a man. The image was so faint, if not for his skilled vision, he would have over looked it completely. It was barely more than an outline, tall and lean.

With eyes narrowed, he began to stalk forward. Frustration rose as with each step as the figure remained the same distance from him. No amount of movement brought him any closer and a growl rumbled from his throat.

“Who are you?” he called out.

There was no response, only the slight shifting of the body. He called out again, only to be met with silence.

For what seemed like an eternity, he stared at the hazy figure when movement caught his gaze. A hand reached toward him. Suddenly his heart was thudding heavily in his chest and without knowing it, he too was reaching toward the extended hand. He tried to focus on something tangible and definite—some indication of who was reaching for him.

He found he wanted nothing more than to grasp that hand. His body tensed and his breathing stilled as their fingers neared until only a hair’s breadth of distance was between them. Just as they were to touch, the world shattered around him.

Eyes shot open with a gasp as Altaïr jerked awake, his heart pounding powerfully in his chest. He lifted a hand to grasp at the thin material of his sleeping tunic. Was that his other? Had he nearly touched him?

A low rumbling growl escaped and he slid shakily from bedding he slept upon. The room was mostly bare, much of the furniture having been destroyed by him after Al Mualim’s death in his rage of his mentor’s betrayal and what had survived, destroyed in his fight against the madness creeping into him at the loss of his other. When he had become Mentor, he wanted nothing that had belonged to the man. His scrolls were placed in the library and his furnishings and clothing destroyed.

Altaïr had never been one for owning more belongings than he could carry on his person. Al Mualim’s former rooms, now his own, were possessing only of a desk, a bedding pallet with pillows, a few weapon racks, and a chest for his garments. It was a simply furnished room. He preferred it as such. The Mentor should not have more possessions than the assassin’s under his watch.

Pressing a hand to his face, he took a few deep, calming breaths and thought back on his dream. The white haze had obscured any definition, but he knew without any doubt that the figure was his Guardian. He was the man who had traveled with him on his journeys. He had been so close to touching him, to feeling completion again after the last few weeks of emptiness. So close, and yet he had woken just heartbeats before they had touched. 

A snarl curled his lip and he ripped his sleeping tunic over his head, stalking toward his clothing chest. He tugged on a pair of loose dark trousers and hooded robes. Leather boots were slipped on with practiced ease. It was a familiar routine, one he had completed on a daily basis for the majority of his life. He forwent shaving in favor of reaching his destination more quickly. The angry and frustrated energy needed to be expelled before he killed a Brother in his distress. Allah forbid him having to deal with Malik's wrath if such a thing occurred.

He faced his racks of weapons, choosing a sword from those displayed and strapped on his hidden blade bracer with practiced ease. The thin blade shot forward with a cursory clenching of his fist, his missing ring finger creating a window for the blade. The hiss of the weapon extending outward was a familiar sound. He left off his belt and dagger harness. He wouldn’t need them in order to expel the emotions running rampant through him.

The sun had not even breached the horizon when he prowled from his room, firmly ignoring the guards who patrolled the halls of the fortress. Torches lit the way toward the central yard and to the training ring where practice dummies were set up for novices and Brothers alike. The wooden dummies were nicked and worn, needing to be replaced every few weeks, but they would do for his purposes.

It was too early for any but the patrolling guards to be out. The fading moon providing him enough light for his task.

An easy twirl of the blade tested the weight and balance, not that he was concerned. It was one of his blades. A cruel smile split his face as he stalked toward the waiting dummy, striking without recourse in a quick slice. He was an unforgiving opponent to his target.

A tremor of reverberation worked up his arm, only giving him a moment’s pause before he was attacking the wood in earnest. His muscles began to burn, which he ignored. All his focus was on his target.

In a vague part of his mind, he was aware of the gathering audience—first the guards, then early risen novices. None were an immediate threat and he ignored them all. The sun was peaking over the walls of the fortress, bathing the area in warm light.

Sweat dripped into his eyes, bringing a slight burn that he ignored. He refused to stop his attack until he could no longer swing his sword. The clang of his weapon against the wood brought murmurs from the onlookers and offered little more than a cursory distraction.

“Altaïr!”

The harshness of Malik’s voice broke through his nearly meditative state and gave him pause. A hiss of breath escaped through his teeth as he turned to see his old partner standing amidst the gathered crowd. The crowd was now silent as church mice, intent on the interaction between the two.

“What are you doing?”

Altaïr shrugged a shoulder and tilted his head so to allow the arrogant smirk gracing his lips to be seen. “Practicing.”

“Allah, give me patience,” muttered Malik as he stormed into the practice area. “If you think that dummy will give you any challenge, you are mistaken.”

“The dummy or a sparring partner are the same to me,” he said with a sneer. “Neither will give a challenge.”

He could see Malik’s brow twitch and nearly laughed. Malik was so easy to goad. They had spent nearly all their lives in the presence of the other. Altaïr knew him very well and as such, was well aware that the words would push him into joining him in the sparring ring. He had not lied with his earlier statement. There were few who could offer him any sort of challenge.

“Do you think you have anything left?” asked Malik calmly as he drew the sword from his waist scabbard.

“Do you think a one-armed man would offer me any challenge?” he shot back, feeling a small bit of malicious pleasure at the way Malik stiffened.

Malik took a few practice swings of his sword. “You cannot goad me into mindlessly attacking, Altaïr. I have known you for too long. You can’t win with cheap tricks. I am not a novice.”

Altaïr grunted and took his place before his opponent. “We shall see.”

The first strike of their blades was felt all the way up to his shoulder. Malik was not holding back, not that he wanted him to. This was exactly what he desired. He wanted the pain that came from the clashing of steel in real battle. Granted, he doubted that Malik would go for killing blows, but he would not pull his attacks either. This was as close to real battle as he would come without going into the wilderness in search of bandits or Templar guards.

His parry of the next attack came a mere second too late, and though while he did parry enough to prevent injury, the blade sliced through his tunic and nicked the flesh of his upper arm. Blood stained through the material, marking the blow.

Malik did not bother to hide his gloat. “First blood is mine, Altaïr.”

“That is all you’ll get, Dai.” Altaïr lunged forward with nearly unparalleled speed.

All Malik could do was defend at that point. Altaïr’s moves were too quick, too feral. He was like a man possessed. Though he did not attack with killing blows, he did not allow Malik any leeway to retaliate an attack.

A quick twist of his body and Malik was knocked from his feet by the force of the swing. Before he could even regain his footing and grip his sword, Altaïr was there, his sword pressed against his jugular with just enough force to bring a trickle of blood to the surface.

“Yield?” he growled, eyes flashing.

Malik swallowed against the blade and nodded his acquiescence. “I yield.”

Altaïr kept the blade at Malik’s neck for another heartbeat before withdrawing the weapon and turning on his heel. He did not look back as several novices rushed to assist Malik to his feet. His body was exhausted, but nothing could be done to stop the racing thoughts spiraling through his mind. If he wanted to stop thinking, it would take more than a spirited spar in the courtyard.

Pressing his fingers to the blood-stained material on his arm, he hissed a breath. Malik was good, even one-armed he was better than ten fully initiated Brothers. That he was able to land a blow was remarkable and he was grateful that his friend was no longer his enemy. Though, while Malik might have forgiven him for Kadar’s death, Altaïr had not forgiven himself. His arrogance of that time was a shameful memory and thinking on it only brought with it a keener ache.

Though he hadn’t known it at the time, not until much later, Solomon’s Temple was the first time he had truly felt the presence of his Guardian. Of course, his arrogance had blocked out any feelings of the other. Though, in his defense, his Guardian’s presence had been extremely weak at the time. Only knowing the feeling of the other and personal retrospect had allowed him to realize that his other had seen him at his absolute worst as he allowed one Brother to die and the other to be maimed.

Dropping his hand, he pushed open the door to his room when his body went rigid. The sensation was akin to that of the other and he nearly moaned in relief. His Guardian was back.

Only…the sensation was less internal and more external. The hairs on his arm and the back of his neck raised to attention. The sensation of eyes focused on him caused him to activate his Eagle Vision. For a moment there was nothing, until his eyes spotted a haze against the far wall. 

For several seconds it lacked all form, until very gradually a body formed. At first, it was only the form that could vaguely be described as a man. As the seconds ticked by, it acquired more detain. The imaged remained intangible to the degree that he could see the stonework of the wall behind him, yet the fine features of his face came into stark definition.

Breath stilled in Altaïr’s chest as the head which was bowed, almost as if praying lifted and dark eyes met his. Lips parted and eyes widened before sorrow replaced the surprise and the head lowered again. That sadness tore at his insides with more skill than the way his hidden blade slipped into his target. He could not stop his feet from taking him the distance across the room until he crouched before the frame.

He could see the elegance of long fingers. His eyes traced the veins visible beneath the skin before directing his gaze to the lowered head. When those dark eyes lifted again, the specter gasped and jerked away from him, shifting as far as he could. Though he could see the shock and fear expressed on the features before him, his heart pounded upon having a face to look upon.

Perhaps some might say their features were similar, yet to him, it was only in the vaguest sense. The man before him shared a comparable nose and equally lean face, but the similarities ended there. The eyes displayed before him were rounder and the lips several degrees fuller. He wore a matching scar on said lips and Altaïr longed to know how he had acquired it. Looking closer, he frowned. This man was far too thin, bordering on gaunt, though his clothing made it difficult to truly judge.

Without thinking, his hand extended to the silent figure and attempted to brush against the pale cheeks only to watch his hand drift through him. A tingling shot up his arm from where his hand passed through and his breath hitched. Though no sound escaped the ghostly figure, his eyes closed and his lips parted as if to moan.

“What is your name?” he asked the ghost.

Before he could answer, dark eyes shot open and stared at the wall over his shoulder before the figure vanished in an instant, as if he had never been there at all. “No! Come back,” he shouted at the wall.

There was no answer.

And the anger ripped through him once more with increased vengeance.

Altaïr shot to his feet and punched a fist against the stone. Again and again he slammed his knuckles into the unforgiving stone. It was as if he had lost his Guardian all over again.

Giving the wall one last punch, he stepped back and looked at his knuckles. The gauntlets he wore had protected his knuckles from scraping, but they hurt. He had no doubt they were severely bruised and yet, could not find the strength to care.

Sliding down the wall until he sat on the hard floor, he stared at the space that had been vacated on minutes ago. Would he come back? Had it been real or only his mind tempting him with the thought of finding his missing half? All he could do was wait.

______________________________________________________________________________

Italy 2018

Desmond groaned upon being shaken awake by Lucy. He blinked blearily up at her, actually surprised that he had fallen asleep in the back of the swaying truck. A quick swipe over his eyes cleared his vision of any remaining sleep when all he wished was to return to the dream of Altaïr. He wouldn’t tell her, though. She would probably say it was part of the Bleeding Effect. That seemed to be her excuse for everything that was not normal.

He wanted to scream at her. How was any of this normal? How was two secret organizations that had battled each other for hundreds, if not thousands of years normal? But then, as he had learned with Vidic, you can’t reason with crazy.

So he remained quiet and stood, waiting for instructions when the back was pushed upward and there stood Rebecca and Shaun. “Hi there. Nice nap?”

Desmond shrugged and rolled his shoulders in an attempt to work out the kinks from his muscles. “As good as could be considering.”

Rebecca smiled and pointed to the boxes shoved in the truck. “Grab a box and follow me.”

All four of them grabbed boxes and followed Rebecca into the run down Italian manor. Cracked paint and chipped or broken stonework graced the outside. Really, it was a dump, but considering the people searching for him, it could have been the Ritz.

“This is Monteriggioni. Ezio lived here and for a time it was the center of the Assassins in Italy,” informed Lucy as she set about pulling extension cords from a black bag.

“Who?”

“Ezio Auditore…you know, your ancestor we told you about.” Shaun set down his box and turned to level a gaze on Desmond. “You sure this guy is up to snuff?”

“Wouldn’t matter if he wasn’t,” stated Rebecca. “He’s all we got unless you happen to have some famous assassin family members lurking about in your blood.”

Shaun shook his head with a shrug. “Nope. I’m a first generation assassin. I was recruited in school.”

“Well, there you go.”

“Way to be supportive,” grumbled Desmond under his breath. “So what can I do to help?”

Lucy looked up from where she was sorting cables. “Go bring in all the boxes and crates that you can. We’ll set about sorting things out and setting up.”

Desmond was grateful to get out of the room. He wanted nothing more than to disappear. This war wasn’t his fight. True his ancestors had fought against the Templars, but he wasn’t a fighter. He wasn’t like Altaïr or this Ezio fella. He was a normal guy…a bartender. He wasn’t sure he could be what the others seemed to want him to be.

Grabbing a hand truck, he began to unload the heavier boxes. He dreaded going back into that machine. The headaches and occasional nosebleed weren’t endearing him to it, particularly since he wouldn’t be seeing Altaïr. His incentive to help these guys was extremely low.

“Just put those in that corner,” said Lucy. 

He found it funny watching them unpack the boxes and crates while he did all the heavy lifting. One of them could at least offer to help.

Six more trips finally unloaded the truck of everything. Since the others seemed to be in their own world, he decided it was time to explore a little of the small villa they were hiding out in. He imagined back in its day, it had been quite the sight.

Working his way down a curving flight of stairs, he found himself in a large room. Every muscle in his body froze upon seeing the statue standing in the middle of the space. 

“Altaïr,” he whispered reverently.

The statue wasn’t an exact likeness, at least not from what he had seen of Altaïr’s face. But then, Ezio had never seen Altaïr in person and it was unlikely that there were any accurate representations of him drawn from his era. But, if he squinted his eyes, he could see it. He could see Altaïr standing before him.

Oh, this hurt.

What were the odds of a statue of Altaïr being found in an obscure villa in Italy? He almost wanted to cry from the injustice of it. Why was he so attached? And to an ancestor at that. He couldn’t decide if it counted as incest if the connection to his ancestor spanned 900 years or so.

Sliding down against the wall, he bowed his head. He really was a deviant for longing for someone who was long dead. It wasn’t like he’d ever spoken to Altaïr. The man never knew he existed. All he had done was watch in abstract as Abstergo drew on the genetic memory stored in his DNA. It was like a sci-fi novel or some crazy video game.

Yet, here he was, sitting in front of a statue, praying for the world to give him a break. One would be enough. All he needed was one break. He longed to take himself away from this hidden war. He had no part in it. The others seemed to think he was raring to fight the evil Templars and save the world or some shit. He could care less about what either group did.

Heaving a sigh, he relaxed against the cold stone only to have something catch the corner of his eye. Lips parted and he startled at the sight of Altaïr walking into the room. He wasn’t completely surprised at the Bleeding Effect manifesting. He’d grown used to seeing odd things of late and considering how much time he spent in the Animus under Abstergo’s watch, he wasn’t surprised so much at the ghostly visage but rather at the pain it caused.

He couldn’t look at him and turned his eyes away. He both longed to see him and yet he wasn’t sure he could bear the agony of watching a ghost move about. He could see through him to the other side of the room, for Christ’s sake. This was simply his brain processing the knowledge of what he’d absorbed from his ancestor and manifesting it for his eyes alone. It wasn’t real. Altaïr wasn’t real.

With clenched eyes, he prayed for the ghost to fade away. He was exhausted and heart sore. Dealing with the Bleeding Effect was not something he was in the mood to handle.

A sigh passed through his lips and his eyes slid open to see Altaïr crouched before him, staring at him. He couldn’t stop the shout of surprise, nor the instinct to move as far away as he could. Heart pounding in his throat, he scooting to the side in an effort to put some space between himself and the specter before him.

Altaïr’s head cocked to one side, frown pulling at his lips. He crept forward until they were once more facing each other. A gauntlet clad hand lifted and reached for him. Not that he expected to feel a physical touch, but as the hand passed through his face, he couldn’t stop a moan from escaping.

Desmond couldn’t describe the feeling. It sent a bolt of lightning down his spine and left tingles in its wake. He could never have described it as a touch, but rather, it was so much more. He felt as if Altaïr’s hand passed through his very soul.

He could see Altaïr’s lips move, but was unable to decipher the words as there was no sound. He wished he could answer whatever question seemed to be directed at him. He opened his mouth to respond with something, anything, when Lucy’s frame became visible through Altaïr’s translucent body.

“Desmond, Shaun went and got some food. I know you’re probably hungry.”

And just like that, the connect he felt was broken. He wanted to cry when the shade before him flickered away, leaving him cold inside.

“Desmond.”

“I saw Altaïr,” he said matter-of-factly.

Lucy inclined her head. “Hopefully, you won’t have as much issue for long. Rebecca promises me that the Bleeding Effect from her Animus will be minimal. And we won’t work you beyond what is safe.”

“I saw him,” he repeated. “And he saw me.”

That seemed to give her pause and she frowned at the revelation. “That’s impossible.”

“Maybe. But it happened. We connected.”

Lucy folded her arms across her chest and nibbled on her lip in obvious tell, he just didn’t know what it was revealing. “You might have thought you did, but the Bleeding Effect doesn’t just show actual events that happened. Your mind is warping it so that you’re seeing less of truth and more of fiction playing out. Or at least, that’s what I surmise happened.”

He didn’t bother to argue with her. And, maybe she was right. He shouldn’t even be seeing what he was seeing—his brain more than likely damaged from extended periods in the Animus. Bringing a hand to his brow, he chuckled darkly. His own mind saw fit to torture him.

“Desmond?”

He shook his head and stood. He felt so very tired. “I’m fine. It’s just an odd sensation. I guess I’m worse off than we thought if I can’t distinguish between what is real and what is just in my head.”

“You’ll be fine, Desmond. We won’t be putting you in the Animus for a day or so. Let’s go grab some food and then you can rest. That will help you more than anything.” Lucy reached to pat his shoulder, only to have him flinch away.

He chose to ignore her and plodded toward the larger room he had left them working in earlier. He must have been gone longer than he had thought. There were several cots with pillows and blankets set up against the far wall. Rebecca was busy putting together her Animus and Shaun seemed to be focused on the computer before him, mindlessly eating what looked like fast food tacos.

Rebecca gave him a wave before turning her focus back to the task at hand. He turned to the large bag of fast food and withdrew a taco. With great effort, his feet seeming to grow heavier with every step, he walked to one of the cots and sat with a grunt.

After a few bites of the lukewarm fare, he tossed it into a box that looked to be used for trash and decided sleep was more important than food, particularly when it was as unappetizing as that pitiful excuse for a taco. As he closed his eyes, he wondered if the Bleeding Effect explanation given to him by Lucy was the truth or whether his eyes and mind were the truth.

He hoped it was the latter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, it's been a while. I'm gonna be honest with you guys, you scare me. i thought maybe like 5 people might read this and it has like 130 subscriptions, tons of kudos and comments. I'm kind floored at the response to this story. I'm terrified of disappointing people. But anyway, here you go. Better late than never, I suppose.
> 
> This chapter has a big, fat warning. I know some of you slash fans are super anti het. Well, this ch. has some het...graphic hetero sex. It had to be done because lets be real, Altair is Desmond's ancestor, so there had to be a baby. But I absolutely despise Maria THorpe. Hell, if I could have, I'd have killed her in the first game when she looked like boy. So, I took lots of liberties and the concubine in this ch. is gonna get preggers from this little scene and spit out the next gen of Desmond's ancestors. LOL. But, ya'll will never see it, but I'm gonna imply it just to cover that aspect, cuz let's not forget that this is a time travelish fic.
> 
> Anyway, I hope ya'll enjoy. Comments and kudo's are always welcome, but never demanded.
> 
> My two guys might eventually get together. All I know is I'm taking an ass long time in doing it. I'll update when I update. Not gonna post any more on FF.net. I'm too lazy to post on that site. I'll just stick to Ao3.

**Masyef 1192**

Deep-seated frustration coiled inside him, seeming to grow with each passing moment. He could only wear his body down so much, and even his excess of time spent in the sparring ring with various Brothers was only helping so much. Only a few offered him enough of a challenge to make it worth his effort rather than feeling as if he was teaching children to walk rather than fighting with an equal. Malik and a few of the more experienced Brothers seemed to take shifts in keeping him occupied. He had his suspicions of Malik’s involvement, but held his tongue while he benefited from the distractions.

But it wasn’t enough now. The frustration growing inside him wasn’t something that could easily be dispelled by swordplay or exhaustion aching muscles. Only the touch of another could ease the ache. And the one he wanted seemed nothing but a specter, of his own mind or Allah’s torture, he did not know for both were the same in the end.

A roll of his shoulders cause bones and tendons to pop with tension. His pacing continued around the space as his thoughts drifted toward the memory of surprised eyes connecting with his own. He was so used to hiding beneath his cowl that when he had met that gaze, it was as if they had shared a deep intimacy for all too brief of a moment.

A hiss escaped his clenched teeth. His guardian had looked so young. Those dark eyes, so similar to his own, did not have the shadows hiding within their depths. They weren’t completely innocent, but rather were the eyes of a novice, one who had seen death, but had yet to truly live within it. There was vulnerability, but strength as well. And it was that strength that tugged at his interest. He could still remember moments when that pure strength of will had pulled him from paths he should not walk. 

“Where are you, novice?” he asked the silence of the room, both wishing for and dreading the answer that never came.

With a huff, he stalked toward a basin of cool water and splashed his face, droplets dripping down his neck and into the material of his tunic. He was driving himself made with thoughts the one individual he could not have. His hand drifted down to the loose trousers handing low on his hips to touch the half-hard flesh of his cock. His teeth ground together as he released the organ and stalked from the room. This was the exact reason why Masyef housed concubines.

He ignored passing Brothers as he stalked to the series of rooms and gardens where those who serviced the Mentor resided. He had not visited them since assuming the post of Mentor, and had considered releasing them to find husbands amongst the unmarried men in the village. While not a Christian monk, he only sated this particular urge on rare occasions. His attentions were always focused elsewhere rather than in physical release. The deaths he administered provided plenty of release for him that dipping his wick in wet cunts held little pull.

Several of the concubines looked up in interest as he passed into their domain. A few even stretched out in provocative sprawls, showcasing their voluptuous curves. However, it wasn’t curves that he sought. Eyes continued to light on each figure until they finally settled on a slender woman. While there was no denying her femininity, her body possessed minimal curves in hips and bust. 

A quick jerk of his head has her jumping into action and following him with a smug smile directed toward those not chosen to tend to the needs of the new Mentor. Her feet pattered quickly on the stone floor as she trailed after exiting figure.

“Mentor, what would you wish of me?”

Altaïr’s hand snaked out and latched onto her dark hair. Her skin was paler than most women he knew. Out of all that remained of Al Mualim’s harem, she was the thinnest; her body almost boyish. But still she had more curves than he desired.

“Mentor…”

He gave a sharp tug on her hair, bringing a pained whimper to her lips and silencing the words that had formed on her tongue. “Silence.”

With a hard shove, he watched her tumble less than gracefully onto pillows adorning a corner of the room. He refused to fuck her where he slept. His hands tugged his tunic over his head and then released the tie on his trousers. The concubine was quick to action, immediately kneeling before him and taking his cock into her wet mouth.

A grunt escaped him and for a brief moment he allowed himself to drift on the pleasure being administered to him. Experienced lips and tongue lapped and sucked at him, bringing more pressure downward. His thoughts easily drifted into the realm of physical pleasure and the tension in his abdomen grew even tighter.

His eyes sprang open and he withdrew himself from her lips and pushed her back to the pillows with a less than gentle shove. The loose shift she wore was shoved upward and fingers quickly dipped into the shaved cunt exposed to him. Wetness met his fingers as he shoved them roughly inside her, testing her tightness and wetness.

Her moan nearly had him shoving her away. He thought to slap her for her lack of obedience, but chose instead to spread her thighs wider and push himself inside the waiting heat with little finesse. He was seeking release in her body and nothing else. There was no need for sweet words or gentle caresses. She was a tool for his use and nothing more. 

Altaïr growled low in his throat, hands wrapping around the leg pulled high at his waist. His hips rutted into the warm body pressed tightly against him while tight wetness surrounded his cock, gripping like a fist with every pump. And still it wasn’t enough. No amount of grinding or thrusts seemed to push him towards the end he sought.

Panting breaths escaped him as he stared down at the woman writhing beneath him. Her body was soft where he longed for ropey muscles with dusky skin pulled tightly over them. Her skin was too pale as well and he nearly moaned in frustration as his body seemed to be losing all desire to fuck her.

“Please…”

Another growl escaped him at the soft plea from the woman’s lips. “Do not speak,” he hissed.

In a swift motion, he withdrew from her body and flipped her to her stomach. From this angle, her feminine curves were less visible, though not completely absent. He trailed his erect cock from her tailbone down the crease, pausing for only an instant as the tip brushed the pucker of her anus before pushing downward and into her wet heat.

Closing her eyes, his hands gripped heavily on her narrow hips. In his mind’s eye, he saw a thin, very masculine frame sprawled out for him. Strong, leanly cut muscles shifted and strained as his body bowed forward into the bedding. Long wavy locks were replaced by closely shorn hair and pale skin was now nearly olive in appearance. 

His cock hardened almost painfully and his hips began a fast pace, bordering on rough. He shut out the feminine grunts, choosing instead to imagine the breathy moans of a decidedly deeper tone. The image of the man he had seen, his Guardian, completely replaced that of the woman beneath him.

Instead of a hot cunt, his cock plunged into a decidedly tighter hole. He did not care if such thoughts, let alone actions, would bring upon him the wrath of the more religious. Within the Brotherhood, while frowned upon, those sorts relationships were not banned. Brothers participating in such actions were wise to keep their interludes confined behind closed doors and out of sight of others. Islam was the more prevalent religion in the region, with a spattering of Christianity creating pockets in areas controlled by the foreigners occupying the lands. Both religions were opposed to men laying with each other, offenders often being executed in the most painful of ways.

A gasping moan escaped him as the grasping muscles around his cock tightened and he could very nearly imagine what his other would look and sound like as he came. His hand crept around his partner’s abdomen, longing to feel the long length of arousal as it shot semen onto the pillows. He couldn’t stop the pounding of his hips as his body reached for that anticipated relief.

Tightness grew in his sac, spreading upward in a wave of heat before focusing once more in his cock and exploding outward and into the welcoming heat of the body laying limp beneath him. He gave a few shallow thrusts before his body stilled until the only sound left in the room was the sound of panting breath.

A low grunt escaped Altaïr as he rolled from the concubine’s body and lay with his gaze focused on the high ceiling above. Sweat slicked his body, cooling in the chill of the evening and the smell of coital activities teased his nose, causing it to wrinkle in distaste now that release had freed some of the tension from his body.

“Master?” The concubine rose from her relaxed position and fluttered kohl lined eyes at him. “Shall I clean you?”

A wave of his hand signaled his dislike for the suggestion. “Leave.”

The frown tugging at her lips created an unattractive line on her features. With a huff of annoyance, the girl gathered up her robes and stormed from the room with a flick of her long brown locks. He could practically feel the air lighten in her absence.

If not for the stink she left on him, he would have simply fallen into rest. It was almost a sweet scent, mixed with the musk of sex. And he found it nearly nauseating as it clung desperately to his body. His other would not smell of sweet perfumes and oils. He would carry a musky scent of sweat and perhaps sandalwood. 

Altaïr surged to his feet, adjusted the tie to his trousers, and walked into the small courtyard connected to his rooms. A small fountain graced the space. It was one of the few blessings in taking over Al Mualim’s rooms. He stood in the sun-warmed water and taking a pitcher left outside, he began to scoop water into the vessel and wash away the smell of the woman, not caring that his trousers and boots became soaked.

“I see you have found another distraction in Al Mualim’s harem.”

Malik’s voice grated on him and he chose to ignore the hidden jab. His Dai took far too many liberties with his position. He filled another pitcher and dumped the water over his head, soaking his entire body.

“The pleasure given by a woman can offer far more comfort than the clashing of swords.”

Altaïr grunted, choosing to ignore Malik and stalk past him, stripping his boots and wet trousers as he went. He wasn’t sure if their relationship could be deemed one of friendship. They were Brother, true, but Malik was speaking to him in a way not familiar to him.

“There is no shame. The women are yours now.”

His jaw jumped in the effort it took not growl at Malik. Instead, he turned and glared. “I don’t want them.”

Malik barked out a small laugh. “The sounds I heard coming from here not long ago tell otherwise.”

Altaïr shook his head with a snort and reached for a clean tunic and trousers, choosing to leave his feet bear as he took a seat in the chair behind the desk. “It was a pointless activity. Crossing blades with a novice would give me more enjoyment.”

Now it was Malik’s turn snort. “I could hardly call what you do to the novices crossing blades.”

“And what would you call it, then?” he asked blandly, his dark eyes narrowing on Malik.

“Beating them into submission is one phrase I would use.” Malik leaned calmly against the wall, his demeanor unthreatening, though his eyes held deep intent. “You worry me, Altaïr. These past weeks have not eased your restlessness.”

“Did you think it would? Did you think I would forget everything? Al Mualim? The Apple? My Guardian? I had not thought you foolish?”

Malik threw his hand into the air. “Again with this supposed guardian?”

Altaïr chose not to respond to Malik, instead his eyes drifted toward the locked chest sitting unassumingly on a shelf against one wall. He had not touched It since the day of Al Mualim’s death. What he had felt from that artifact on that day had shaken him to his very core. He wasn’t sure what to do with it and he doubted it would be easily destroyed.

But, perhaps it could be of use. His eyes never left the box. And a thought trickled into his mind. Perhaps he could have his Guardian after all. It had seemed all powerful when he had held it in his hands. It had shown him things that his mind still struggled to process.

“Altaïr?”

Giving his head a faint shake, he shifted his gaze to Malik. Without another word, he tugged a pair of dry boots onto his feet and stalked from the room. He would eat, and then he would begin to plan.

oOo

**Italy 2018**

Desmond groaned and collapsed onto the small cot acting as his bed. His head was spinning and nausea caused thick bile to rise onto the back of his tongue. His stomach churned and the smell of microwave burritos nearly had him racing for the toilet.

Rebecca apologized each time he exited the Animus. She promised to tweek the machine before he reentered, and each time did feel more streamlined, but still left him weak and sick for several hours afterward. He never took a break unless forced out. Shaun seemed fine with letting him stay inside continuously, but it was Rebecca who pulled the plug nearly every time.

He was grateful, but regretful at the same time. While he didn’t feel the same connection to Ezio as he did to Altaïr, any distraction from his own thoughts was a welcome one. And reliving Ezio’s life was the perfect distraction.

Funny enough, Rebecca had been right when she said he would retain the skills learned while shadowing Ezio. He could tell his movements had changed in the weeks he had been getting to know his ancestor. His feet no longer made sounds when he walked unless he purposely wanted to be heard. He did not even have to think about it. His body reacted on instinct.

He heard the approach of feet and fought to keep his body from tensing. His body wanted to jerk him into a defensive position. The reaction had become one of familiarity to him. If any part of Ezio rubbed off on him, it was his wariness, particularly after he had escaped the fate of his father and brothers.

“Desmond?”

He cracked open one eye to see Lucy standing over him. “Yeah?”

“You’re looking pale. Are you alright?”

He shrugged and forced himself into a sitting position. “Nothing I’m not already used to.”

“I’m sorry.”

The words sounded insincere. And he had no doubt they were. She might be sorry that it was taking so long or that they were stuck hiding out in a rundown villa, but he very much doubted that she was sorry for using him to the gain of the assassins. If he knew anything about that secret order, it was that they would do anything to serve their purpose. In that sense, both factions were similar. 

We work in darkness to serve the light.

The words turned over in his mind. He had heard them many times. He understood their meaning. The Templars sought peace through control. The assassins were their exact opposite. The assassin’s believed that freedom of choice was every person’s right, even if their choice was something morally repugnant.

He wanted to laugh hysterically. Assassin’s stood for choice, but his had been taken from him; first by Abstergo and then by the assassins. He had wanted nothing to do with them. He had abandoned that life long ago and yet here he was, a prisoner without shackles, forced back into the life he sought to escape. Where was his choice? Why wasn’t he given that privilege?

Oh, he was given a list of reasons why it had to be him. He was the only one who could use the Animus with minimum amount of brain damage. The world needed him. They wouldn’t force him. It was his choice.

But in the end, there really was only the illusion of choice.

And so he allowed himself to be swept away, shoved into a machine and tortured with scenes of death and loss while he killed again and again without the comfort he had found in Altaïr’s presence.

And he dared not tell any of the others about what he had seen. It was proof that his mind was breaking down. The Bleeding Effect was destroying him. He actually thought Altaïr had seen him.

“Why don’t you take a walk outside? Some fresh air would do you good.”

He cocked his head and considered her suggestion. Fresh air did sound appealing and with his mind spinning as it was, he doubted any sleep would come easily. Yes, it was a good idea.

“Alright,” he grunted as he stood on shaky legs. His muscles and brain were not on the same wavelength. His mind wanted to use muscles that weren’t developed yet and it left him with a very disconcerted feeling as his body relearned everything his mind had already absorbed.

He was glad to be away from them, even if it was for only a short while. As he lifted his gaze toward the moonlit sky, he felt some of his tension fade. The nausea remained and his headache never really completely faded.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the silvery gleam of figures walking and talking, though he could not hear their words. Seeing these echoes of the past were becoming common place. He saw Ezio every day. His mother, sister, and uncle nearly as often. The only person he had not seen since that day was Altaïr. Desmond wasn’t sure whether he wanted the torture of seeing the ghost of the man or not. Did he truly want to torture himself with the sight?

He had no illusions that he would survive the end of this war. The Animus alone was slowly destroying him, piece by piece. And he welcomed it. He welcomed the eventual end because if there was a God, he prayed that he would be reunited with Altaïr, even if it was to only spend eternity inside his mind. He had never felt truly alive until he had lived a small fraction of time as a spectator in Altaïr’s life.

Suddenly needing to be higher, he grabbed the corner of a wall and jumped upward, climbing in a clumsy mimicry of Ezio. His muscles just weren’t developed enough to allow for the natural grace of his ancestor. His lungs struggled from just the slight exertion and his muscles burned and quivered. He was but a shadow of both Altaïr and Ezio and in no way compared to either. Sean made sure to drill that point home quite often. Even Lucy seemed to look on him with disappointment from time to time before hiding her expression behind a mask of concern.

“Stupid,” he growled to himself.

Why did he care what they thought? He wasn’t under any illusions of being the hero. He wasn’t an assassin, not really. He might have assassin blood running through his veins, but he had chosen to pass on that life. His only use to the creed was in his blood’s past.

As he looked down onto the street below, he wondered if the fall would kill him. He wasn’t more than 3 stories up, and while he might die from injuries sustained, he doubted it would be a quick and instant death. And, if he was truly honest with himself, he did not want to die. Not by his own hand.

Settling on the edge of the building, he dangled his feet and lifted his face toward the sky as if absorbing the light of the moon. His mind wandered and his body relaxed even more. When he felt the touch of fingers along his cheek and down the length of his neck, he couldn’t even respond…didn’t want to. Even without seeing, he knew they were a man’s fingers. Rough calluses scratched along his skin, causing goose pimples to break out behind them.

He knew it was his mind once more playing tricks on him, a combination of longing and the Bleeding Effect. But he didn’t care. The touch was so very welcome.

And just as soon as the touch appeared, it was gone. His eyes fluttered open to reveal his solitary presence on the roof. A regretful sigh escaped from him and he lifted a hand to follow the trail of tingling flesh left in the wake of his fantasy. He really was a glutton for punishment.

His phone chimed in his pocket, the text reminding him that his life was not his own. For just a moment there, feeling the touch he knew was Altaïr’s, he had felt free of everything. His obligations to the brotherhood had faded away and he longed for that feeling once more. He knew he would return to the rooftops of this small town, if only to perhaps once more feel the touch of the other. It didn’t matter if it was real or not to anyone else. In that moment, it had felt real to him.


End file.
